


The Challenge

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, Ransom, Skyjacking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29196366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Like two adolescents trying to outshine each other, Peter and Mozzie enter into a competition. Neal wants no parts of this ridiculousness, but he gets dragged in anyway.
Relationships: Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	The Challenge

“Neal, it’s an either/or question,” Peter states flatly as he levels his laser stare at me. “Either you _can’t_ help me or you _won’t_ help me.”

“Both,” I quickly answer with a tight smile. “That would be unethical. This little puzzle is yours, and yours alone, to solve. Any aid I might render would be breaking the rules.”

“Listen, Buddy,” Peter growls, “you don’t care about rules. Besides, you’re my CI and it’s your job to help me with cases.”

“And I do, Peter,” I respond with my own serious expression. “I help you with your current ones and all the associated bad guys. But this is a cold case, like glacier iceberg cold. It’s been almost 50 years since it all went down.”

“Doesn’t matter,” my handler argues. “Cold case simply means it has gone unsolved and I need some answers.”

When I refuse to rise to the occasion, Peter tries wheedling. “Just tell me this—is Mozzie simply yanking my chain and blowing smoke, or does he really have the ultimate solution to a crime committed back in the 1970s? Is his claim valid or just an evil attempt to drive me crazy?”

I throw up my hands in frustration. “Peter, I don’t have all the answers regarding why Mozzie says what he says. His mind is like a dark labyrinth and I’m not foolish enough to venture inside. Picture a really spooky zombie movie where the innocents are debating whether to open the door to that dark, musty cellar. You want to yell at the screen and tell them, ‘Don’t do it, you idiots!’”

“Open the door, Neal,” Peter says imperiously. “I’ll protect you from Mozzie and any zombies.”

I take a deep breath and strive for patience under this intimidating interrogation. “Look, Peter, you got yourself into this mess. If you hadn’t been so smug, Mozzie would never have challenged you to this ridiculous duel of intellectual prowess. Besides, you’re an FBI agent so you have a leg up on Moz because you have access to 60+ volumes of a file regarding this case. Unfortunately, they now reside in the archives at FBI Headquarters in Washington, DC because the Bureau closed it down in 2016 after a long and fruitless investigation. If you can’t do the same, why don’t you take a little jaunt down south and do some light reading?”

“Not happening, Buddy,” Peter scowls.

“Yeah, like I said, not happening on my end either,” I snort in rebuttal.

“This is really ancient history,” Peter mutters under his breath. “I was probably still in diapers when it all happened.”

“Don’t look at me,” I retort. “I wasn’t even a lecherous gleam in my adolescent father’s eye at the time. So that makes us even on the state of our ineffectual expertise.”

Thankfully, Peter tables our discussion, but I know he won’t leave it alone. It’s not in his nature to capitulate and admit either ignorance or, God forbid, defeat. When it concerns Mozzie, triple that resolve. It had all started a few nights ago when I had the unexpected privilege of both Mozzie and Peter kicking back in my loft making themselves comfortable. Both of my diverse associates were well into their cups—Mozzie with my Merlot and Peter with the domestic beer that I keep in the refrigerator for his impromptu drop-in visits. Somehow, the inebriated discussion became centered on puzzling cases that the FBI could never figure out. Mozzie, with all the gravitas he could muster in his compromised state, claimed that he knew the ultimate answer to one particular cold case that happened back in 1971. He even slurred that he had physical proof to back up his allegations. Was the mighty Peter Burke up to the task of unraveling the mystery and reaching the right conclusion? Mozzie had thrown down the gauntlet and now Peter was out for bear.

The case to which Mozzie was referring was the enticing enigma of hijacker, D. B. Cooper, whose daring exploit had catapulted him into the realm of urban legend. On November 24, 1971, a quiet man in a bland suit and clip-on tie carrying an attaché case had purchased a one-way airline ticket with cash. He provided the name Dan Cooper when he signed in at the Northwest Orient counter in Portland, Oregon. He later boarded a Boeing 727 that was just one third full and took off without incident. His ultimate destination was supposed to be Seattle, a short thirty minutes away. After settling back and enjoying a drink, Mr. Cooper quietly handed a flight attendant a note making her aware that he was carrying a bomb in his briefcase. He graciously allowed her a peek inside to convince the woman that he was serious. Then he politely made his demands known. He requested $200,000 in nonnegotiable American currency, four parachutes, and a fuel truck standing by in Seattle to refuel the aircraft upon arrival. Now, $200,000 might seem like a paltry amount for something so dangerously brazen, but in today’s economy that number equates to something over 1.5 million. If his stipulations were met, Cooper promised to release the remaining 36 passengers in Seattle without incident. However, the five people constituting the flight crew must remain on board.

Northwest Airlines agreed to his terms, with FBI agents quickly amassing the ransom from area banks—10,000 unmarked $20 bills, most with serial numbers beginning with the letter “L” from the 1963 or 1969 series indicating they were backed by the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco. The delivery of money and parachutes was made on the Seattle-Tacoma tarmac and the passengers were allowed to disembark, never knowing what had caused a delay in their journey. During the refueling, Cooper instructed the captain to set a course for Mexico City at the minimum airspeed possible without causing the aircraft to stall. He also specified that the altitude should not exceed 10,000 feet and the passenger section of the plane must remain unpressurized. The plane then took off once again at 7:40 PM, shadowed by Air Force fighter pilots who hung far back. They never made visual contact because they were hampered by darkness, a torrential rainstorm, and a subsequent low cloud covering.

Now here is where the scenario gets intriguing. Cooper locked the remaining five people in the cockpit, and just twenty minutes after takeoff, those captives saw a warning light flash up on the control panel indicating that the aft set of stairs had been activated to descend. Another gauge indicated a distinct change in air pressure behind them. Finally, when all stayed ominously quiet and the aircraft remained stable, the captain took a desperate chance and landed at Reno Airport at 10:15 PM with the aft stairs still dangling. FBI agents, state troopers, sheriff's deputies, and Nevada police surrounded the jet, as it had not yet been determined with certainty that Cooper was no longer aboard. A quick armed search ultimately confirmed his absence. At that point, the question remained—did a man named Dan Cooper successfully parachute out of that plane and make his getaway, or would his remains and the money be later discovered somewhere in the dense forested section of Washington State? A precise search grid was difficult to pinpoint because of variables along the flight path. An important unknown factor was the length of time he remained in free fall before pulling his ripcord—if indeed he succeeded in opening a parachute at all.

Over the following years in this mysterious saga, all kinds of theories surfaced, but the fact remained that a body was never discovered. What did finally emerge was the existence of some tattered waterlogged $20 bills in 1980 fished out of the Columbia River downstream from Vancouver, Washington by an 8 year-old boy camping with his parents. The currency was significantly degraded, but still bundled in rubber bands. FBI technicians confirmed that the money was indeed a portion of the ransom: two packets of 100 twenty-dollar bills each, and a third packet of 90, all arranged in the same order as when given to Cooper. Other forensic scientists disputed that these packets had been in the river for 9 years, claiming the rubber bands would have long disintegrated by then. To date, none of the 9,710 remaining bills have turned up anywhere in the world. Their serial numbers remain available online for public search.

Of course, there was a wealth of bogus claims over the years made by people who wanted their little bit of notoriety and a moment in the spotlight. Several adamantly stated that Cooper was a long lost relative of theirs and they had unwittingly aided and abetted him after his masterful feat. Others were ready to swear on a stack of bibles that they saw Cooper vacationing at Disneyland or living the high life in Las Vegas. The only piece of plausible evidence popped up in 2017. A group of volunteer investigators in the Northwest uncovered what they believed was potential evidence. It appeared to be a decades-old parachute strap. This was followed later in August of the same year with a piece of foam, suspected of being part of Cooper's backpack.

So, there you have the background info surrounding the intellectual duel between Mozzie and Peter. Did this fellow Cooper survive or did he perish? Personally, I have no dog in this fight and don’t care about the shrouded mystery one way or the other. According to witnesses at the time, Cooper appeared to be in his forties when the caper took place. By my rationale, if he hadn’t died after his skydiving exploit fifty years ago, it’s a good bet he has since succumbed to the ravages of old age. Or maybe he’s sitting in some elder care facility cackling in glee as he watches old episodes of “Golden Girls.”

Nevertheless, Peter is relentless and his badgering is beyond irritating. I just happen to know that he took a little trip to DC recently, probably to read through some very old and dusty files, but, from the expression on his face upon his return, there was no joy found in the archives. The initial rules were that Peter had exactly 30 days to come to a definitive conclusion with some shred of evidence to support his theory. That endpoint was fast approaching and I didn’t want to stir the pot by inquiring about any progress on his end. I just wanted to find some foxhole and hunker down until the smoke cleared.

“I don’t think your little sidekick really has anything in the way of evidence,” Peter tells me one afternoon.

“Perhaps not,” I say noncommittedly.

“What are you not telling me, Neal?” Peter suddenly turns on me and looks threatening. “Mozzie probably tells you everything and I can picture the two of you sitting in your loft gloating while you watch me chase my tail!”

“Peter, you’re beginning to manifest signs of paranoia,” I say calmly. “Not everybody is out to get you.”

“Well, two can play at this game,” Peter responds with an evil glint in his eye. “How would your little misfit nitwit like to have the IRS dogging his steps. I can make that happen because I seriously doubt that either Dante Haversham or Teddy Winters has ever filed a tax return in their lives. If you think the FBI is relentless, picture Federal CPAs with their menacing little calculators bared like fangs and closing in for the kill.”

“Peter, you’re obsessing,” I try to get through to him. “This is just a silly game of one up-man-ship, and fair play means adhering to the rules and not twisting and bending them so that you can win.”

“That’s hypocritical, like the pot calling the kettle black,” Peter harrumphs.

I shrug in helplessness and desperately want this debacle to end.

On day “30,” the combatants meet head-to-head once again in my loft. “Well, Suit, whatcha got?” Mozzie challenges. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

“There’s nothing to show, Haversham,” Peter says with authority. “This whole sham was just an exercise in futility and you’ve got absolutely nothing, just like me.”

“Au contraire, El Capitan,” Mozzie says in triumph.

“Aren’t you mixing your usage of two foreign languages?” Peter snarks.

“French, Spanish—doesn’t matter,” Mozzie says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Let me put it in English so you can fully comprehend my words. I have actual tangible proof that sly old D. B. Cooper was successful in pulling off his theft and surviving to fight another day.”

“Well then, cough it up, because seeing is believing,” Peter taunts.

Mozzie is nothing if not accommodating. He rummages in a cloth bag from Whole Foods and produces a small Polaroid picture that has faded somewhat over time. It shows a man in his early fifties, just beginning to grey at his temples, but bearing a remarkable resemblance to the composite the FBI created after questioning over fifty witnesses involved in the skyjacking incidence. The FBI’s D. B. Cooper looks like a clone of the one in the picture who is seated on a beach lounger with a swaying palm tree behind him in the background. He has a huge smile on his face and is holding up fanned out greenbacks to the camera. “I present you with irrefutable evidence that bold Mr. Cooper survived and began to live the good life far from the evil clutches of The Man.”

“This is pretty flimsy evidence,” Peter refutes the claim. “You probably used a bit of Photoshop to produce this and I’m not buying it for one second.”

“You can’t Photoshop a Polaroid, Doofus,” Mozzie sputters. When Peter continues to look murderous, Mozzie adds, “Okay, Mr. Doubting Thomas, take it back to your forensics people so they can tell you it’s the real deal.”

“Is that it?” Peter wants to know.

“I knew you’d be a hard sell, so I’m going to bring out the big guns just to embarrass you,” Mozzie says with a determined air. He then produces a stack of crisp $20 bills and holds them out to his nemesis. “Take this bunch of twenties and have Treasury verify that they were part of the original ransom that remained in Cooper’s possession. All that waterlogged currency from a river was just a red herring to make you think he had died on impact. You don’t have to return the cash to me; I can be magnanimous and part with it just to put you in your place.”

Peter wasn’t so cocky now. “How did you come by this money, Haversham?”

“The same way I came into possession of the final nail in your coffin,” the little bald man says snidely. He then lifts a hairbrush from his satchel. It looks well-used with a mixture of both dark brown and grey hairs protruding from the bristles. “I just happen to know that when DNA evidence became a viable and dependable science in 2001, you guys in the Bureau managed to extract a usable bit from Cooper’s tie that he left behind in the plane. It also matched what was recovered from that extraneous fragment of a parachute strap that was later discovered and verified as part of one given to the hijacker. However, when that DNA was entered into your database, you never got a hit. I would venture a guess that if you use a strand of this hair, you may get a match now.”

“I’m going to ask again, how did you manage to get these things into your possession?” Peter says ominously.

“An old storage locker?” Mozzie offers unconvincingly.

“Don’t play me for a fool, Mozzie. I could arrest you right now for withholding crucial evidence in an ongoing case,” Peter growls.

“Try again, Suit,” Mozzie taunts. “It’s not ongoing. The statute of limitations ran out ages ago. You’re just a sore loser, and now you’re pissed off and don’t want to admit that I’m smarter than you. Just man up and own it. Instead of threatening me, just accept the fact that I’m superior in solving riddles. Do it gracefully with heart, and a simple mea culpa will suffice for all your nasty insinuations and insults.”

Of course, Peter is less than gracious. He tosses the brush, the cash, and the photo back into Mozzie’s cloth grocery sack, slings it over his shoulder and storms out the door without another word.

Mozzie turns to me and cocks his head. “I’m going to want my Whole Foods bag back, Neal. Can you get it for me after the Suit cools down?”

“I’ll give it my best shot to retrieve your property, Moz,” I promise.

Later, as my quirky little friend and I recline on chairs out on my balcony with bubbling flutes of a fine Domaine Chandon in our hands, I ask quietly, “Are you ever going to tell me the whole story, Moz?”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt at this late stage in the game,” Moz says with a sigh. “It’s all going to come out in the very near future anyway. You’ll just be getting a tantalizing sneak peek.”

“Do tell,” I encourage.

Mozzie begins to gather his thoughts. “Well, as the story goes, long before I met you, I was footloose and fancy free, a real unencumbered vagabond traveling the globe and meeting all kinds of interesting people. One such person lived on an isolated little island, and we became friends since we were both Americans far from home. He regaled me with a fascinating tale that defied all logic and I, of course, was skeptical at first. But he was very convincing and my bullshit detector didn’t give off any alarms, so I listened in rapt attention. When he concluded his accounting of a fantastic exploit, he told me that he had spent his leisure time on his island getaway penning his memoires, but he wasn’t prepared to submit them to a publisher anytime soon. He desired them to be a posthumous testimonial, and he wondered if I might make that possible down the road. His account of a skyjacking was a tantalizing read and I was completely sold. The world needed to be regaled by his ingenious caper, but it would be difficult for the self-written autobiography to be taken seriously. The author knew that would be a problem, so he entrusted me with irrefutable proof that every word was true. The Suit just left with that proof.”

“Has that author since passed away?” I ask softly.

“Yes, he has just recently, but his fame and glory will survive him because I always keep my promises,” Mozzie says in a melancholy tone.

We sit in silence for the better part of an hour. The celebratory champagne has gone flat when Mozzie chirps brightly, “Did I ever tell you about the time I met one of the only convicts to have safely escaped from Alcatraz?”

“Please, Moz, just don’t tell Peter that!” I beg my buddy.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on a true FBI cold case that remains unsolved to this day. Mozzie’s resolution of it is all fiction created by my grey matter. However, a California man, who the FBI long thought might be a viable suspect, died in early January of this year at the age of 94.


End file.
